The Replacement
by TheHazelRose
Summary: Following in his father's footsteps, a middle aged man is sent off to war because of a tradition that has run in the family for years. From father to son, year to year, a continual birth of combative Engineers do their calling. However, no one except for his late father has ever survived the war. So, this makes him think... Will he make it too?


Disclaimer: Valve Corporation owns Team Fortress 2 and its characters.

I turn my steering wheel to the far right and arrive at an old and deteriorated, wooden building that I presume to be my new work-place. A feeble breeze comes through the window hole of my truck, and I catch a whiff of broken and dusty air. It is saturated, thick, and filled with an abundance of sandy particles which forces me to have the desire of cutting off my connection with it. I roll my window back up and instead, enjoy the view of the crisp sun that is now low in the sky. Even though the air is somewhat putrid, I can still appreciate the essential and aesthetic beauty of this day.

The building that exposes itself before me withholds a large sign that reads "Reliable Excavation Demolition" in large and bold, ivory letters. The paint upon the sign is obviously past its due date and has begun to chip severely, and if I didn't know any better, I would surely think that this area was abandoned a very long time ago. To reassure myself – especially in account with the view I am given – I check the paper of directions that I had bestowed upon me through the mail. Everything seems to be correct, and there aren't many other buildings close by to choose from. So, I assume that I'm at the appropriate place.

I park upon the pavement where an outline of once clearly legible, painted script is present. I can't exactly make out what it is meant to say, but I manage to comprehend "VI Class". Whatever "sixth class" means, I do not know. But this spot belongs to me now, especially being that every other position is already taken.

After I align my truck into my newly inherited parking spot, I slowly raise my right hand and curl my fingers around the key within the ignition. With a slight tug, the key is released and the humming of the engine quickly comes to a halt. The truck falls completely silent and all that can be heard is the beating of my own heart.

For a moment, I just sit here in an idle manner. I can feel that the expression on my face is quite relaxed, however on the inside of my head, deep within my thinking processes, I keep screaming at myself to drive back home. I start to lose my seemingly cooled façade and begin to tightly grip the steering wheel until the bone of my knuckles becomes easily visible underneath my medium skin tone. Blood begins to heavily pulsate through my arteries, and I can feel myself becoming vexed. I'm flustered, not prepared, and most of all, regretful. I have no idea why I'm allowing myself to go on with this, but I just keep going anyway. My actions are now mechanical and I am almost not in full control of my own doings.

Lightly shaking, I place my limp hand upon my dog that is sitting on the passenger seat next to me. His coat is soft and comforting, and I can feel his scruff deeply seep in between my fingers with each pet I give him. While using the sensation and presence of his body as a therapeutic remedy to myself, I begin to nurture my emotions back into a calmer state. He then looks up to me and confers with a full-fledged, puppy like grin and I cannot help but smile. I take consolidation from him because in this time, he is the diminutive bit of home I have carried along with me. And for that, I truly am glad.

However, the consolidation of my dog's presence soon begins to wear off of me and I feel myself falling into the frigid and malicious hands of deep thought. Many people would probably wonder as to why I am allowing myself to do this. Hell, they would most likely think I'm insane – even I myself believe it at times. But I know that this deed is something that needs to be done for it is my duty, as an Engineer, to take up this job.

What I'm about to do has been a tradition in my family since the 19th century. Working here, it is… what we engineers are exclusively known for. Each father passes down to his son not only the family name, Harding, but also the job of being present and serving in war. The job? It's just as bad as it sounds. You work in a sandy hell-hole whilst slaughtering just about anyone for not even the slightest amount of wage. And it's not even for a good cause. Two industries just decided to create conflict against each other and are stubborn enough to refuse to cease. If you were to ask me, I would say that this is all a conspiracy that had been nefariously generated by the first female announcer of these so called "war games". However, with that said, many soldiers just shrug off the idea of it being as corrupt as it seems and choose to follow the incongruous idea of fighting for "a cause" and "freedom". This only leads to more belligerence and more people dying, in my opinion.

And, through the generation of my family's line… only one man had survived the war and was able to return home to his family with few broken bones. That man, you ask? He was my father. The strongest and most tenacious damned guy I have ever known. Dear God, I hope that I will be as lucky as he was.

I shake my cranium and bring myself about into the real world again – the one filled with mundane characteristics, combative bloodshed, and conspiracies – and open the truck's door. I find myself taking a shaky step onto the torrid asphalt and breathing in the same and unforgettable dusty air. I then face back to my truck, lean over the driver's seat, and latch a leash onto Marty's worn golden collar. Marty then takes this action as an initiative to hop out of the truck and onto the parking lot. He calmly looks up to me and waits with loyalty, wondering what I will command as the next action.

I close the door to my truck and take a few steps away, looking back at it and its satisfying beauty and allure. The sun briskly shines upon its crisp, candy-apple red paint job, and with the way it sparkles, it is as if Christmas is smiling at me. I can't help but think of the memories I have imbued with this vehicle. Absent-minded, I rub my left hand across the hood. Ain't that a pretty little truck? I said to myself with a warm heart. It's going to be a damn long time before I get to drive her again. After taking one more good and long look at her, I decide to shift my view toward the building I am about to enter.

"Come on boy", I say as I tug onto Marty's leash, "we've got a whole new world ahead of us".

We walk up to the front entry-way of the building. The glass door, unlike everything else, doesn't seem as aged and looks as though it has been replaced recently. I peer into the glass that covers it and take one long survey of the halls and closed doors on the inside. I can't make out much, mostly because it is dimly lit inside and also because I'm a bit blinded by the ultra-violet rays of the sun. I figure the best way to further investigate this place is by going inside, and that's just exactly what I do.


End file.
